


Just Like a Little Girl

by thegrendel



Category: Original Work
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, Molestation, Pedophilia, Perversion, Prison, Rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-01
Updated: 2018-08-01
Packaged: 2019-06-20 02:48:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15524406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegrendel/pseuds/thegrendel
Summary: Finally there's a place for men who like little girls, a place where there will be no more hiding, no more misunderstanding, a place where they can finally be out in the open, a place where they have all the time in the world to be their true selves.





	Just Like a Little Girl

It was a horrible nightmare, and he was sure he'd wake up in his own bed,  
in his own bedroom, with Kendra softly snoring beside him, and . . .

"COUNT!" The guard was rattling his truncheon along the bars as he  
stomped down the long cellblock hallway. Time for morning count, when  
every inmate had to be on his feet to stand up and be counted. There  
was a chorus of curses and groans from the nearby cells.

"On yer feet, Johnnie girl, the screw needs t' see ya. Make sure y'  
ain't flown the coop."

He shrank away from the hand grabbing at his ass. His cellmate leered  
at him, then turned and spat on the cement floor.

John had been in administrative segregation for his first week at the  
State Pen, and he'd just been released to the general population. He  
wasn't sure how long he could survive here. The convicts in this joint  
didn't much care for his sort.

It hadn't been so bad at first. He'd had a cell all to himself in admin  
seg, visits from his lawyer, and even the food was almost passable. It  
was all a terrible mistake, and surely his lawyer could get him out  
on bail while the case was appealed. My gosh, it wasn't as if he'd  
done anything really _bad_ , such as embezzling his bank for  
instance. Just because he was fond of little girls, but then he'd been  
caught that one time . . .

The shower. On his third day here, he'd had to parade down to the communal  
shower room with the other inmates in admin seg. There was a serenade of  
catcalls and whistles from the old cons watching them through the bars of  
their locked cells.

"Whooee! Lookit them new fish. Nice ass on that one there. Like to get  
into that one, I surely would."

"Yeah, dat guy. I reconnize 'im from the TV news. He be Johnny Bridewell,  
dat chile raper. He been doin' little girls, and now we's gets our shot  
at doin' _him_. After we maybe do a little plastic surg'ry on  
dat face o' his, huh? Gonna do some little rapin' on his ass, fo' sure."

Rape? No! He hadn't actually used _force_ on them. He'd just . . .

 

John demanded to see the warden.

"Sir, I've been threatened with violence and I need special protection.  
I have a _right_ to that. A constitutional right. And I _insist_."

"Why, sure, Mr. Millionaire Bank President. We'll be assigning you  
your very own personal armed guard. Just as soon as the budget for it  
gets approved by the the state legislature, that is. Meanwhile, you'll  
just have to watch your ass all by your lonely self. And you'd better  
watch it very carefully. You pervs just aren't very popular in this here  
establishment, you know."

 

They raped him in the shower. There was supposed to be a guard watching  
the inmates there, but he had disappeared after a few minutes. "He gotta  
bottle, da screw," one of the naked cons said. "Ain't gonna be back  
fer a good while, don' look like. Heya, fellas, it's showtime."

Two cons grabbed John. He tried to scream. (Ten-year-old Jennifer had  
opened her mouth in a silent scream.) Someone crammed a bar of soap  
into his mouth and a powerful hand clamped over his lips. (He had held  
his hand over Jennifer's mouth and told her that this was their little  
secret, and no one would believe her anyway.) He choked and gagged and  
struggled to breathe through his nose as he felt himself being forced  
to his knees and bent over forward and . . . and then there was a sharp  
stab of pain _down there_ , and it felt like someone was trying  
to shove a bar of iron up into him, up into his guts.

"Naw, man. Ya gotta soap up yer cock real good and slick so it can slide  
right in. Here, lemme show ya."

The pain wasn't as bad this time, but, but . . .

John sat on his bunk, sobbing, with his head in his hands. He was sore  
and aching down there, but the worst part of it was knowing what had been  
done to him. There was sticky white stuff seeping out of him in that  
place and he felt torn open. His body had been violated, defiled. His  
_manhood_ had been ripped from him. He was John Bridewell, a  
respected banker, a man who'd lived in an expensive house in the suburbs,  
a man with a wife and a daughter, a man who'd _loved_ his daughter  
(maybe loved her in the wrong way), a man who . . .

This was the first time in his life he had seriously considered killing  
himself. He had taken off his prison-issue shirt and was trying to fashion  
the sleeves into a semblance of a noose when large hairy forearms wrapped  
themselves around him from behind.

"You don't even want to _think_ 'bout that, shithead." It was  
Bart, the guy who slept on the lower bunk. "I'd snuff ya myself for  
doin' all that dirty stuff to them little girls, but lookee here, could  
be yer still good for somepin. I got this hardon you's gonna suck off,  
and later on, maybe I stick it inta yer round brown, what say?"

It appeared that John still had a destiny to fulfil on this earth of  
ours -- and that was to be a receptacle for the filthy lust of thugs  
and common criminals. Could it be, could it be that this was somehow  
related to what he himself had been doing to the girls -- the neighbor  
girl down the street, the daughter of his head clerk at the bank,  
and . . . had he somehow _defiled_ them with his own perverted  
lust? No! He must never think that or he'd sink into a morass of despair  
and self-loathing. No! He didn't _deserve_ to be here, to suffer  
this . . . brutality and degradation.

He lay facedown on the bunk, whimpering like an animal in pain. He hadn't  
wanted to go shower this morning, and had pleaded to be allowed to stay  
behind. The guard had laughed.

The water was spurting from the showerheads and dense clouds of steam  
were rising from the floor. A circle of menacing naked men surrounded  
John and they were slowly closing in on him. Now one of them had him in  
a headlock with a shiv pressed against his throat, hoarsely whispering  
in his ear that he'd get to like it, yeah, sure he'd get to like it by  
the hundredth time it was done to him, or maybe the thousandth. And he  
felt that burning pain down below. Six cons fucked him in the ass before  
the lookout called out a warning that the guard was returning.

It hadn't hurt as much this time. Maybe he was becoming numb to the pain  
or maybe he really _was_ getting to like it. He didn't know.  
He didn't want to think about it. But maybe he deserved it. Maybe . . .

 

"I'm gonna do ya just like you was a little girl," Bart had growled at  
him last night. Just like a little girl. A little girl. John remembered  
one particular little girl. She had been so sweet and innocent. He had  
just wanted to show her his love, and what could be wrong with that? He  
had been twenty at the time and had never had a woman. He had been afraid  
of grown women. Then he got this idea. . . .

 

"Sorry," said the lawyer. "There's just not enough money left for an  
appeal. And, in fact, I'm not sure how much longer our law firm can  
continue to represent you, considering your present financial status.  
I could put you in touch with Legal Aid, if you'd like."

"But my house! I netted a million and a half when I sold it. Free and  
clear. There wasn't any mortgage on it. And the bonds and securities. At  
least another couple of million. And the summer cottage, and the boat,  
and . . . Hey, I was well off before . . . Where could all that money  
have gone?"

"You know how expensive a criminal defense is, especially for a case  
as serious as this one. It was a four week trial and we had to pay the  
psychiatrists and expert witnesses to testify. And then we had to settle  
the civil suits with the families of your . . . ah, victims, and there  
really wasn't all that much left after that. And your wife, after she  
divorced you, you know, she was awarded pretty much everything still  
remaining. Sorry, guy. Your net worth right at this moment is maybe  
a couple of thousand. And there are still those outstanding bills you  
owe the law firm. Not to mention taxes and the like. It's not too soon,  
in fact, to start giving thought to filing for bankruptcy."

"So, I'm effectively flat broke, not to mention stuck in prison for the  
foreseeable future."

"John, you were sentenced to twenty to life. Theoretically, that means  
you're eligible for parole twenty years from now, but . . ."

"But what?"

"With this local parole board . . . I don't know. Child molestation  
is always a tough one. It's worse than murder in most people's eyes.  
I don't think you should be getting your hopes up even for twenty years."

"But what, what if I say I'm sorry? What if I wrote letters of apology  
to the . . . the girls and their parents, the victims . . .? What if I  
wrote letters to the newspapers telling how I'm repenting for what I did,  
and how children should be protected from depraved people like me, and  
that pedophilia is sick, a pathological aberration, that child molesters  
are monsters, and . . . ?"

"Well, John, it's a little late to come to that realization. No,  
I don't think it would have any significant effect toward securing  
your freedom. But it could be very important in freeing you in another  
sense. I'm talking about your personal salvation. It might make it  
possible for you to live with yourself for the 20 or 30 or 40 years  
you'll be spending in this place. And you know, it could make the world  
a little safer for children to grow up in."

 

Forever. He'd be in jail until he died. Or maybe they'd let him out  
fifty years from now, when all memory of what he'd done had faded. When  
he was an old man confined to a wheelchair, fit for release only to a  
nursing home.

Well, at least life had improved for him here. He wasn't being gang  
raped in the shower any more. Bart had become his protector.

"Lissen, sweet cheeks. Youse belong to me now, y'hear? You're  
_property_ , get it? I _own_ you. But, look at it this way,  
I take care of what's mine. Good care. Won't let dese scumbags hereabouts  
mess wit' tcha."

Bart was a horny fellow. He stuck it into John's ass two, sometimes  
three times a night. But then there were those nights when he left John  
alone. Merciful, blessed peace.

It really wasn't so bad any more. Not even when Bart rented him out to one  
of the other cons. Bart charged a carton of Marlboros for John to give  
a blowjob. Three cartons for taking it in the ass ("Worth it. Better'n  
fuckin' yer girlfriend's pussy."). Once a guy had asked what it would  
cost to fist John. Bart had laughed. "I gotta think on that. Maybe ten  
cartons. You could tear his gut open doin' that sort of thing. Hell,  
I surely don' want my cash cow ruint. Gotta think real hard on it."

Sure, it wasn't really all that bad. Life could have been worse. You know,  
it didn't even much hurt any more when he took it in the ass. Bart lubed  
himself up good with hair oil before putting it into him, and he'd learned  
to relax his asshole as the cock went in. No, it really wasn't that bad  
at all. Kind of comforting, actually. He could get to really like it,  
given enough time. And he had all the time in the world.


End file.
